I Don't Mind the Sun Sometimes
by Frisky Wallabee
Summary: AU story. Mix in Boho Brady Bunch, a Future Fellini, trombone love, a sugar roller coaster and you get...this story. Javid and other pairings
1. Losertonia

**A/N: **This story is dedicated to pennylayne and her fantastic story 'A Very Thin Line' that you _all must read_ for giving me the vague idea for this story.

I, David Elihue Jacobs, have been at the Joseph Pulitzer Academy of the Arts for one week and I'm already in love. Or, rather, lust. I can't say that I'm in love because I don't even know the name of the object of my affection. I have just seen him walking down the hallway where my room is, spouting out a monologue in a flawless British accent and became immediately smitten. He was an angel…if angels wore torn jeans and Bon Jovi t-shirts that is. He was also incredibly good looking and, judging from the grass stains on said jeans, his sport for the school was soccer meaning that every weekend, I could go and watch him…once he learned his name. It wasn't like I have a sport of my own. Sports were a requirement at the school—most likely in a vain attempt to make it seem more normal—but I had begged, pleaded and sulked for my mother to get our family doctor to write me a note to excuse me. All I have to do was pretend to have asthma. It's not that I don't like sports, I just suck at them. I'm too short for basketball, too small for football, too uncoordinated for baseball, too smart for hockey, too slow for soccer, etcetera, etcetera. Besides, I had come to the school for _art_, not sports. Writing was, as my roommate put, my poison. My roommates are, in fact, the only people I know at the school. And I don't even really know them. There's Juan Perez who, for some reason I don't get, is called Bumlets. He's at the school for film and keeps going on about his sitcom that would be a "boho Brady Bunch". He brought an ancient NEC television with him that's permanently set on TVLand. All he did was watch old sitcoms and write notes down on a laptop. When he spoke, it was usually a quote from a show. There's the boy who shared a bunk with me who's Jewish like I am. Mark Goldstein who's called Specs for obvious reasons. He was there for band and played the trombone. He was the only one who I really "hang out" with. My last roommate is an Asian boy named Matt Lee. He's called Swifty and after speaking to him, it's obvious why. He's on the track team and does everything double the speed of a normal person: walk, talk, eat. He's at the school for culinary art, which is putting what he does lightly. I've seen him bring some work home and he is nothing short of a food-Picasso. The things he does are amazing…not that anyone eats it of course. God forbid, right?

I don't do much at the school except eat, sleep and write. I guess I haven't hit my "social stride" or whatever. Frankly, all I want to do is get to know the acting hot boy who has my hormones in a bunch.

--

I'm walking with Specs back from lunch. We have no classes together outside our "normal" classes, which consist of biology and math. History is for our choice of "major" and English is covered in our fancy classes. We're talking about how insane our mothers can get since they're both walking, talking, Jewish-women stereotypes. Suddenly, he lets out an animalistic squeak and drags me behind a bay of lockers. His trombone case is pressing into my spine which really hurts. I watch a blonde boy with classes and a saxophone case go strolling by, singing a song from what I think is _West Side Story_. I was never good with musicals.

"Gee Officer Krupke, we're very upset," he sang without restraint. "We've never had the love that every child oughta get! We ain't no delinquents, we're misunderstood…deep down inside us there is good…"

He continues this as he goes out of earshot.

"Okay," I say, shoving the case off of me. "What was that about?"

Specs blushes and bites his lip. "You're going to think I'm a loser."

"Please," I roll my eyes. "I'm the king of losers. I rule over all of Losertonia so I don't think that what you can say can affect me."

I don't really go into _why_ I'm the king of losers and, frankly, don't want to.

"Well," he releases the hold on his lip. "I've had a crush on him for the past two years. He's first chair sax and I'm first chair trombone so we're right by each other in the band room. Thing is, I've never even talked to him. I always get too nervous."

So, I wasn't the only one with my little…sexual predicament here. Somehow, this doesn't surprise me.

"What's his name?"

"Perry Palanski," he replies. "But everyone calls him Dutchy."

"Talk to him about band?" I suggest.

He shakes his head. "No, I'll wig out and babble. I babble when I get nervous. Fuck, I'm a loser, right?"

I smile at him.

"Mark—"

"Specs," he corrects. "I've grown to like it after Jack gave it to me freshman year. But yes?"

"Once again, king of the losers."

He smiles at me and we go our separate ways. I want to ask him about this Jack but I stupidly keep my mouth shut.


	2. Schba?

I'm walking from the bathroom down the hall to my room when I hear people talking and an open door. Being curious, I poke my head in. I find two boys and a shitload of clay. One of them is feverishly bent over a desk, molding the little limbs of clay figures while the other is snapping pictures of the ceiling and eating a slice of watermelon.

"Blink," picture boy complains, putting down his watermelon. "This watermelon sucks. I can't taste the vodka."

I'm only mildly surprised. Judging by the earthy smell in the room, I also suspect these boys had been getting high. At least picture boy. Feverish clay boy—Blink, apparently—turns and glares at him.

"Mush, complain to Jack. It was _his_ watermelon."

Then he turns and notices me…and I notice that he's wearing an eye patch. What the fuck?

"Hi," he says.

"Shit!" picture boy squeaks. "You aren't gonna grass on us, are you?"

Eye patch McGee waves a clay-covered hand. "Ignore him. He gets stupid when he gets wasted. You're new right?"

"Yeah," I reply. "David Jacobs, uh, junior."

"Alex Bennetson, or, Blink as Jack calls me," he smiles. "Senior."

"'Cept he's sixteen. He got skipped ahead 'cause he's so smart," drunken boy prattles on. "'Cept he never knows when I want sex."

I begin to think that there are no straight boys in this school.

"This is Mush," Blink continues. "He's not as dumb as he looks…or acts. He's a junior. So what are you here for, Davey?"

I step in the room, feeling awkward standing like a dork in the doorway.

"Writing," I say, waving my hand in the smoke smell. "You?"

He gestures to the clay. "Filmmaking."

I furrow my brow. "What?"

He smiles. "Joking. Partly. I'm in here for art and film. You know Aardman?"

I shake my head.

"_Wallace and Gromit_? _Chicken Run_? _The Presentators_?" his smile widens.

Mush rolls his eyes. "Blink _loves_ talking about this."

"Fuck up," he says, smile not fading. "Well yeah, my dream is to be like those guys. So that's why I'm here. Mushy, however, is here for photography."

"And drugs," I add.

Mush sticks his tongue out but he's smiling. Blink wipes his hands on a dishtowel resting by his little figurines and stands.

"Want the rundown on the hall?" he asks. "Because I haven't seen you leave."

I nod, why not?

"Okay. There's me and Mush here with Jack and Spot. Jack's an actor. Amazing, really amazing. He can do any accent, I swear. He's also one hot piece of ass."

"Hey!" Mush kicks him.

Blink kicks him back. "Hay is for horses. Anyway, Spot's an artist."

He points to prints on the other side of the room that make Edgar Allen Poe's poetry seem sunny and bright. I take these in with a mortified look.

"Is everything he paints…"

"Creepy, disturbing, scream for a straightjacket?" Blink offered. "Yup. But that's Spot for ya."

"Next door to us is Snitch, Nero Rizzio. Our future Fellini. You'll probably see him out and about, filming cigarette butts or a line of ants. He's a filmmaker," he shrugs. "He rooms with Skittery, Oscar and Racetrack. Race is a writer. Probably in your classes. Short, loud, Italian."

"Sounds familiar."

"Thought so. Morbid poet surprisingly," he blinks his, uh, eye. "Yeah, I know everything. Everyone comes to our room for pot and tend to spout things about themselves. Okay, Skits is an actor too, also pretty good. Oscar's in music and we only give him pot to pacify him since he's fucking nuts. Like, really."

"He has anger management issues," Mush explained.

"Putting it lightly. His entire family's like that, I'd guess. Thems DeLanceys are the epitome of Guido anger."

That last name sounds slight familiar and, for some reason, my sister's voice—also a student here, not that I ever see her—comes to mind.

"But yeah, he plays guitar but plays sax in the school band. He and Skittery used to have a thing," Mush says. "Now they're friends."

Blink snorts. "Friends. Mush, managing not to kill each other is not friends."

He shrugs. "Whatevs."

I sit on the edge of Blink's bed…I think it's his anyway, the bottom bunk.

"Dutchy, music boy. Pie, culinary master. Only one better than him is your roommate, Swifty. He's mostly for use, not fancy. Uh, Jake and Snoddy are dancers although all they do is dance with each other…if you catch my drift."

"I do."

"And that's pretty much it for the hallway," he lets out a breath. "Except for Crutchy but he doesn't room in here anymore. He got moved to the Hearst building, which sucks because he's the master of digital graphics. He helps me with my stuff."

I nod my head, absorbing all of this. Something, however, is bugging me.

"Okay, two questions. First, this Oscar…does he have a brother?" I cross my fingers, hoping the answer is no.

"Yeah," Mush says. "A dumbass named Morris. He was supposed to graduate last year but totally showed up for final exams baked and didn't pass."

Fuck. Now I know why the name sounded so familiar.

"He's dating my sister," I moan. "Shit."

"My heart goes out to you," Blink says. "Now, your other question?"

"Where do you guys get those nicknames?"

"From me."

Like a scene in a cheesy teen movie, I turn and see him. _Him_. The boy I had seen in the hallway. In my head, I had already put two and two together figured that the boy I had seen and the one people keep mentioning, Jack, are the same person. And now he's standing in front of me in all of his hunky glory.

"Schba?" I offer lamely.

He smiles. "Greetings and salutations, new kid. You a Heather?"

I have no idea what he's talking about.

"No he's a David," Mush answers. "I don't know his last name though."

"Jacobs?" I manage.

"Heya," he says again, flashing this amazing smile at me. "We haven't met. Jack Kelly."

He sticks his hand out and I take it, feeling one with the world. I love my life. Then I open my mouth and shit comes out.

"Yeah, hi. I, uh, saw you in the hall. I mean, I didn't mean to but I heard you and I looked and I saw and yeah, I saw you. I mean, you're really good at acting but I'm sure you hear that all the time and—"

He smiles. "Well boys, we got ourselves a walking mouth. So Mouth, enjoy the school."

I realize I'm still holding his hand. I hate my life.


	3. Drug Addicted Child Star Connotations

I walk with Bumlets the next morning to Biology because I really have nothing better to do. On our way, we pass a tall boy in a pink shirt arguing with a violent-looking one in a wife beater.

"Goddamnit, Oscar," he's shouting. "I don't have your fucking CD. Or, if I do, it's because your shit is everywhere."

"Oh fuck off Skits. I know you have it just to spite me."

"Yeah because I do things like that."

Bumlets and I laugh as we pass them.

"A modern Lemmon and Matthou," he remarks.

As it usually is with Bumlets, I don't understand him. He must've seen my look of confusion because he explains it.

"Oscar and Felix. _The Odd Couple_?" he tries. "Sitcom starting in 1968 about two very different roommates?"

I can almost hear crickets from my side of the audience. He sighs and waves a hand.

"Never mind," he says. "I forget that you're uninformed."

I choose to ignore that and we walk into the classroom. Biology is basically naptime for fifty-two minutes. Our teacher, a tall, sissy of a man who insists that we call him Jonathon teaches it and never uses any discipline. He has all the spine of a pillow. So while he rhapsodizes about the difference between a turtle and a tortoise, the class of twenty-seven sleeps or draws or listens to music or talks. It's a pretty sweet deal actually. We take our seats that Swifty has so nicely saved—he always gets to class first—and Bumlets cell phone starts ringing. Naturally, it's the theme from _The Brady Bunch_. He looks at the number and stuffs it in his bag.

"Pie?" Swifty cocks a brow.

"Pie," he confirms. "Boy won't leave me alone."

"Iknowright? Imeanhetotallyisbuggingmeduringclassyesterdayaboutwhyyouaren'treturninghiscallsorwhatever," he says. "It's annoying."

Bumlets, employing some skill I had yet to learn, understands all of this. I, however, just hear 'blah-bee-bloo-blee-blah' and can only nod my head. This, though, once again confirms my thoughts that no one in this school is straight. No boy anyway. I notice the girls in the class fawning over Jack. Much to my hormonal happiness, he ignores them and continues talking to the short, big-eyed boy who looks to be about thirteen.

"Ooh, happy turtles again!" Bumlets enthuses. "I can hardly wait."

Swifty nods as Specs comes in and sits next to him. I'm thankful since I feel out of sorts with just those two.

"Hey," he seems out of breath. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Bumlets says. "But we're learning about turtles again. Makes me want to—"

"Make a sitcom reference and I'll burn your Christopher Knight poster," Specs threatens good-naturedly.

This earns him a shove. I smile, feeling better.

"Hey Mouth! Sit up here!" Jack calls down to me.

I feel a swelling of joy and pride as I get up to join him. He smiles at me in this magnanimous, sexy way that makes me want to jump him. Instead, I just sit in the open desk.

"Spot," he says to the short boy next to him. "This is Mouth. He's new here."

"David," I say.

"Hi, Mouth," Spot grins but it's a lot scarier than Jack's. He looks like a little bunny, it seems. The bunny from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ but still a bunny.

My true introduction to Spot, I would find, will come much later. For now, he's just the intimidating boy on Jack's other side.

"So what's your poison?" Jack asks.

"Writing."

"So the Mouth writes?" his smile widens. "Fascinating."

I want to say that what _is_ fascinating is the fact that he looks like a Greek God but I refrain and just nod my head, trying not to open my mouth and make things worse.

"Ooh," Spot deadpans. "Turtles again."

He scribbles on a blank sheet of loose-leaf, a turtle that looks run over cooking on a frying pan. I turn away and concentrate on Jack. He's talking to me, good sign. However, it's in a slightly condescending mocking tone but still…talking. I don't like how he calls me Mouth though. Wasn't Mouth that annoying kid Corey Feldman played in _The Goonies_? Shit, I hope Jack doesn't make the connection. I can only foresee cries of 'HEY YOU GUUUYS!' and other quotes from that Godforsaken movie I had loathed in my youth and loathe even more now.

"Rather," Jack says before turning back to me. "So Mouth…make anyone do the Truffle Shuffle yet?"

I hate my life.

"No," I say. "But maybe I'll make you do it if you keep calling me Mouth."

I now am to learn that Jack is an exhibitionist. A big one. He stands up, lifts his shirt and starts shaking about. The fact that he has not one bit of excess fat on him—just sculpted abs that make my stomach churn—makes it all the more hilarious.

"Are you Jewish?" Spot asks me harshly.

I'm tempted to roll my eyes but I'm afraid that if I do, he'll reach over and jam his pencil up the nose. It's very, _very_ obvious that I'm Jewish. I may as well have a neon Star of David flashing about my head.

I settle for a "Yes."

"We can call you Feldog!" Jack enthuses, coming back down. "If you don't want to be called Mouth."

"Can't you call me by my name?" I ask.

"No," Jack says brightly.

I may be getting a hard-on but this boy is seriously starting to get on my nerves.

"Fine…call me Mouth."

"Awesome."

I hate him. I hate him. I—

"Or just David," he says. "It has less drug-addicted-child-star connotations."

I love him.


	4. Pure Refined Hatred

It's been a week and I already regret my initial crush on Jack. He is possibly the most childish, dirty-minded, annoying boy I've ever met…and I'm his new victim. All he does now it seems is torture me: tickling me in the hallways, jumping in front of me and scaring me when I'm trying to sleep in biology, tugging my hair, calling me Davey, licking my cheek for Christ's sake! The only time I'm safe is when I'm in my room which isn't much better. Swifty bought a mechanical pastry cutter, which is possibly the most annoying thing I've ever heard. No, I take that back. Bumlets watching _Perfect Strangers_ at ear-splitting volume is the most annoying thing I've ever heard. I'm beginning to think that my parents sending me here is a test of my mental stability. I'm failing.

--

Today, I go to Specs's band practice to escape Jack. It's set up differently from my one at home. Instead of the risers getting longer as it goes up, there's the long drum core and then it kind of goes like a pyramid. This lands Specs behind and between the blonde boy, Dutchy I think, who he had said that he liked and the violent boy I had seen last week who were, surprisingly, the only two alto saxophonists. I can tell he's nervous, sitting behind blondie, because his slide falls forward and hits angry!boy in the back of the head. He jumps up and whips around.

"Fucking A!" he screams. "Keep your fucking slide to yourself before I stuff it down your fucking throat!"

The band instructor comes up and grabs him.

"Oscar," he snaps. "Principal's Office. Now."

Giving Specs the finger, he stalks off. The bell rings shortly after. I go to join him when I notice that the blonde boy, Dutchy, is speaking to him.

"Wow, exciting huh?" he's saying as he packs up. "Way to finish up the day right?"

Specs nods but he's blushing. I can tell that he wants to say something but is too embarrassed that he'll babble.

"So," Dutchy continues, putting his neck strap in his case. "Do you wanna, you know, hang out? Talk about the score? Maybe…you know…"

He's smiling at him. Specs nods again and finally notices me. I give him a thumbs-up. Good for him.

"Heya Dave! Didn't know you were a band geek."

Shit.

Jack's standing there, grinning stupidly at me. He has an arm slung casually around my shoulders.

"I'm not," I say, now cursing myself when my stomach does flips and turns when he's around. "I'm here to watch Specs."

Jack pouts and puts his head on his arm which is still around my shoulders.

"Aw, leaving me for Specs?" he pretends to sound disappointed. I'm sure he is. "Well, it looks like Dutchy's horning in on your turf. But you two would be cute together. Ah, Jew love. The most honest love there is…"

I begin to think he has some form of tourettes.

--

I'm somewhere in the blissful state between sleep and awake. My roommates are quiet: no pastry cutters, no trombone and no, thank God, episodes of _Welcome Back Cotter_. I have about a half hour until I have to get up…life is good.

"Wakey, wakey, Davey!"

I recognize the voice immediately. How the _hell_ did he get into my room? Or is he just that good that I just hear him wherever I go?

I open my eyes and find that Jack is, in fact, in my room. God, how I loathe him. I think I may actually hate Jack more than I hate _The Goonies_.

"You look cute when you sleep," he says, grinning.

--

From now on, all Jack does after school is come to my room and be incredibly intrusive. He makes comments about my posters, looks through my stuff and, I swear, actually opens drawers and examines my clothes. He's like a little kid. I begin to thank anyone there is up there that I only have my "normal" classes with him.

Today, I'm trying to get my work done while Jack reclines on my bed, smoking. He's also wearing his combat boots _on my comforter_ and that somehow irks me more.

"Whatcha writin' Davey?" he asks me.

He does this a lot.

"A short story," I say for the fifteenth time.

"About?"

I just try to keep writing. If I press harder on the pen, I feel less tempted to jab it in his eye.

"About?"

"People," I answer. "I don't know what it's about yet. Except that it's about people."

He shrugs and goes back to smoking. I hate him.

"Don't you have a monologue to memorize or something?" I ask, exasperated.

He smiles and taps the side of his head. "All in here, Davey."

I realize now that I'm stuck with him. Asshole.


	5. Live Action Aladdin

I'm sitting, alone thankfully, at the one desk in our room, writing when Specs comes in. He's smiling and toting his trombone case. I have a feeling that hearing a harrumphing version of _We Will Rock You_ is in my immediate future.

"Hey," he seems breathless and his cheeks are flushed. "You won't believe it. Dutchy came up to me after practice today and asked me to go out with him after class. So I did."

I'm genuinely happy for him. Plus it kind of puts off him playing his trombone. Whoever invented it should be punched. With bullets. God, Jack is rubbing off on me. That's the kind of stupid thing he'd say.

"Did he kiss you?" I ask.

Specs puts the case down and widens his smile. "I kissed him."

Then we do something that is usually reserved solely for seventh grade girls. We squeal and jump up and down singing "Havah Nagilah". We're so Jewish. But whatever, he's the closest thing I have to a real friend at Pulitzer's. Besides, he's not annoying like _some_ people. If only I could, I dunno, _kill_ his trombone.

--

The next morning, I'm sitting between Bumlets and Specs in Biology. I never go sit with Jack even though he comes up to me every day going 'HEY DAVE!' at nuclear volume and planting a huge, sloppy kiss on my cheek. God, I loathe him. We're all pretending to care about turtles which this spineless little prick has been going on about since school started which, really, no one cares about. So everyone is just talking. I would feel bad for the teacher but if he's talking about _turtles_. _Turtles_: nature's D student as Stewie Griffin says. I know this because Swifty sneaks on and watches _Futurama_ and _Family Guy_ on Bumlets's television after he goes to sleep. I watch with him sometimes because it's good to watch television without canned laughter.

"So are you guys going out now?" I ask.

Specs shrugs. "I don't know. I want to but it's too soon to tell."

I go to say more, something encouraging, but I'm interrupted. _He's_ here.

"Davey Dave," Jack strolls in like he owns the place and kneels in front of me. "How goes it, sweetie?"

He has this habit of calling me 'sweetie' now. God knows why. I think I almost prefer Mouth to it. This time, instead of giving me a sloppy kiss on the cheek, he plants a big wet one right on my lips and wiggles his eyebrows. I swear I hear groans from the girls behind me.

"Watch it, Kelly," Bumlets warns. "Jonathon might do something."

They both laugh.

"He always said don't play ball in the house," Bumlets nods his head and goes back to writing his sitcom.

I want to ram his snarky, live-action Aladdin head into his desk but I refrain, saving my hatred for Jack.

"Don't do that," I say.

"Okay, Davey," Jack smiles.

I hate him, I hate him.

Jack then leans in and kisses me again before skipping off to his seat. Yes, skipping. Mark the time and day. It is now official. My hatred for Jack has replaced my hatred for _The Goonies_.


	6. FLY, FLEANCE, FLY

"There's a party tonight," Specs announces.

It's funny how those four words change your life. I didn't even think that Specs was into parties.

"Dutchy told me. Blink and Mush's room."

That explains it.

"Who's all going?" Bumlets asks, not looking up from his laptop.

"Everyone," Specs flops on his bunk, the bottom one.

"I'mthere!" Swifty enthuses, shooting from the bathroom like Pietro Maximoff.

I've never been into parties. Ever. I don't do well with large crowds. I tend to babble continuously and basically make myself look like an idiot.

"Dave?" Specs raises his eyebrows.

"Sure," I say, forcing a smile.

What's the worst that could happen?

--

I never usually drink at parties. Hell, I never usually _go_ to parties.

"Hey," Race drapes an arm around my shoulders. "You're in my classes right?"

I nod.

"Hey," I say, trying to remain chipper. "Isn't that Skittery?"

I'm proud that in my inebriated condition, I can remember his name.

He drunkenly glances in that general direction. "Yeah. Skittery with his tongue down Oscar's throat if you wanna get technical about it."

"Well I…" I just shut up and drink my vodka that someone has thrust into my hand.

"Which is dumb," Race continues. "Because they totally hate each other now and Skits says his music's crap."

Then he staggers off into the crowd. I force a smile and down the rest of my drink.

--

There are very few things I remember about the party after that:

Spot getting wasted and ranting and raving about his art teacher who thought that Andy Warhol was a childish git. Spot had gone on and on about how the disgruntled teacher was just jealous that he hadn't thought of it and that he didn't look half as good with the bleached locks.

Race exclaiming 'So quick bright things come to confusion' before leaping off of Blink's chair and screaming 'FLY, FLEANCE, FLY!'

Mush jumping up and down on his bed and singing 'London Bridge' by Fergie after consuming who knows what in addition to booze.

Having to watch Specs and Dutchy drunkenly make out.

Actually, there's one more thing I remember about the party. Something I want to pretend never happened.

Making out with Jack.

--

I had been so drunk; my spatial awareness was completely off-kilter. I cannoned off of Blink's desk and into someone's arms.

"Hey, Davey!" Jack chirped jovially.

"Oh, you!" I had been unable to think of something remotely wittier.

Then Jack was looking me over.

"Never knew ya to drink, Davey."

"Well changes," I said, not making sense even to my self.

I also remember Jack looking at me weirdly, with this glint in his eye.

"Whachu lookin' at me for?" I asked. "Like that."

"How am I looking at you, Dave?"

"Like that!" I repeated, stamping my foot. "Stop it!"

He pulled me close to him and, to my now sober revulsion, I let him. Then I vividly remember him leaning down and licking my lower lip.

"Ewww!" I squealed like a girl. "Stop it!"

But Jack didn't stop it. He grabbed me by my shoulders and pressed my mouth, firmly to his. And I let him. I even opened my mouth and let him do devastating things in there. I remember him tasting like beer and chocolate. And I liked it. A lot.

Dear God, what's wrong with me? Jack is the most annoying, childish, self-centered person on the face of the planet. He annoys me on a daily basis to the point of wanting to punch him with a knife! Why, oh, why did I let him kiss me?


End file.
